


Under Observation

by CariZee



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But he's not a 00, Crossover, Gift Fic, Greg is a special agent, M/M, Mycroft is Q, We'll leave that to James, Winter Mystrade Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:55:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CariZee/pseuds/CariZee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes does indeed work in traffic. Human trafficking, arms trafficking, drug trafficking and most of all, the trafficking of information.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Observation

**Author's Note:**

> This is my gift to kitty-mochi for the 2014 Winter Mystrade Exchange. I hope you like it!
> 
> It's also my first Mystrade fanfic, beta'd by the generous and talented beaubete. Thank you so much!

Mycroft Holmes has eyes everywhere. Overseeing things is a tremendous part of his job; the purpose of it, in fact. He is the observer, the collator, the one who not only sees but comprehends. His ability to make sense of the copious, often dichotomous information that pours into headquarters is what makes him so important—invaluable, really—and Mycroft likes to be invaluable to others. He won’t be the Quartermaster of MI6 forever, but while he’s there he’ll make sure his tenure is memorable.

Mycroft doesn’t really have the technical proficiencies to be the Quartermaster, but as he proposed to M before she hired him, it isn’t necessarily the duty of the Quartermaster to invent new technologies. Rather, his or her role is to get a handle on the organization’s assets, in whatever form they may come, and then utilize them on mission to their fullest potential. There are plenty of brilliant scientists and engineers working to improve the agency’s technological capabilities, and Mycroft doesn’t have to play a direct role in their work in order to make appropriate use of it.

“It’s not the traditional way we do things,” M said at last, looking at Mycroft like she wasn’t quite sure whether to shake his hand or stomp him beneath her kitten heels. “But I suppose there is room for _some_ adjustment, as long as you can adequately control for your lack of expertise.”

The doubt might sting a lesser individual, but Mycroft has never given in to doubt. “I fully intend to, ma’am.”

Mycroft doesn’t have the technical know-how, but he has trusted people working for him who do. Mycroft isn’t a field agent, but he manages their ranks with a deft hand, understanding the flow of information and supplies, the push-pull between need and speed. He doesn’t have a license to kill, but he understands the importance of the role a 00 can play, given the right—or wrong—circumstances.  He is conservative on the whole, daring when he needs to be, and very rarely makes a mistake. He relies on people to do their jobs, and just in case they don’t, he’s watching them. He’s almost always watching.

That’s actually the best part of the job, as far as Mycroft is concerned. Providing oversight and direction. He tells whoever asks—not that many people ever do—that he is a minor government official who works in traffic. And he _does_ work in traffic. Human trafficking, arms trafficking, drug trafficking and most of all, the trafficking of information. Whether that information be government secrets or, on occasion, a simple schematic that needs retrieving, Mycroft is there to guide his agents. Not that working with James Bond is ever simple.

“Left, Bond,” he sighs into the microphone. “I do believe I said _left_. You’re now heading toward three heavily-armed men, who are due to turn a corner and face you in approximately seven seconds.”

“Are they?” Bond muses. “What a shame. Well, no time like the present to try out this new grenade prototype.”

It’s a stunner, actually, a potentially non-lethal option for agents in the field, and Mycroft is also interested in whether or not it works so he doesn’t bother to chide Bond—not that it would take anyway—for his overzealous actions. Instead he watches a feed that R has sourced for him, connected to the building’s surveillance system, and waits to see what happens.

Initial results are positive. The stunner is almost totally silent but its concussive effects are profound for such a small device. All three men are knocked to the ground. Mycroft thinks he sees blood coming from one of their ears, an interesting side effect. However, the other two are pushing shakily to their feet again in under ten seconds, and he frowns. “I think a more permanent solution is called for at this point, Bond.”

“I know how to do my job, Quartermaster,” Bond snarks over the comm. A moment later there are three shots, and voila: three dead bodies. How very 00.

“So I see, 007,” Mycroft replies genially, because he likes how being agreeable makes Bond grind his teeth. “Well done. Now please take that left; your exit is two hundred meters down. You know where the safe house is. I’ll monitor until you send the all clear.”

“Confirmed.”

Mycroft leans back in his highly ergonomic chair and steeples his fingers beneath his lips. Pity about the duration of the stunner’s effects, but it’s still a beautiful piece of technology. He’ll have to let Sherrinford know; it will only spur the youngest Holmes to try harder. He, unlike Sherlock, knows how to take constructive criticism.

Mycroft’s personal phone rings. Speaking of Sherlock… He mutes his microphone and picks up with a sigh. “Brother, what a delightful surprise.”

“I need nitroglycerin.”

“Have you developed a heart condition since last I saw you?” Mycroft asks as he takes a sheaf of papers from Anthea with a brief smile. He could have them all digitized, of course, but he likes to be able to leaf through things every now and then. It’s a calming, repetitive action.

Unlike talking to Sherlock, which is often repetitive but as far from calming as working with any 00 on their worst day.

“Of course not, don’t be deliberately obtuse,” Sherlock says irritatedly. “I need it for an experiment. You have stores of it in your office, Mycroft. You can certainly spare a little.”

“You wish me to steal a potent explosive from a government office and deliver it to you so that you can wreak untold havoc with it?”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m downplaying the risks, if anything.”

“Just like you wear suits that downplay the disaster that is your waistline,” Sherlock snaps, and then his tone turns atypically entreating. “You let Sherrinford work on your computers, and he’s far more likely to wreak havoc with those than I am with a _little_ bit of nitroglycerin.”

“Are you honestly telling me that you’re jealous of Sherrinford getting to play with my toys?” Mycroft inquires. All he receives in turn is silence. Sherlock has ended the call. “Mercifully brief,” Mycroft murmurs, then turns to his assistant. “Anthea, put someone on monitoring Sherlock for the next twelve hours. I have the feeling he’s going to do something rash and I’d like to know about it before Gregson does.”

“I’ll go with twenty-four hours to be safe,” Anthea says with a nod. “The new hires need something to do anyway.”

“Remind me again why we have so many new hires?”

“M has many relatives and those relatives have ambitious children.”

Mycroft rubs one long index finger along his left eyebrow, the closest he’ll let himself come to admitting he might have the beginnings of a headache. “Ah, yes. Nepotism at its finest, then.”

“I am giving them the task of monitoring _your_ brother, sir,” and there’s no mistaking the gentle humor in her voice this time. “I’d say it all sorts out in the wash.”

“You’re wise beyond your tender years,” Mycroft tells her. A moment later Bond is speaking again, and he refocuses on the agent.

“Well, the location might be shite,” Bond says as he moves about the tiny one-room flat not far from the waterfront, “but at least it’s decently stocked. Honestly, you do know there are casinos in Montenegro, don’t you? I could be very happily staying at one of them, winning enormous amounts of money in the name of England, and instead here I am in a pestilential walk-up with only a bottle of—actually, quite decent Scotch for company.” Mycroft can practically _hear_ Bond’s curling little smirk. “That means you gave me Lestrade as backup for this one. Bless you, Quartermaster; he’s the only bloody support agent in the field who has even a modicum of taste.”

“I’m glad the room suits you, 007. Do let me know before you leave the country tomorrow.”

“Confirmed.” This time Bond takes the earpiece out completely, and the sound fades. A moment later Mycroft sees Bond locate the tiny camera he had Lestrade put in place and offer it a casual salute before throwing his jacket over the top of it. Lovely.

Mycroft sets his surveillance of Bond aside. He turns to a different screen, activates another channel on his microphone and suddenly he hears rough laughter, the sound of men drinking, the click of a lighter and several people bemoaning their luck. Cards, then. Lestrade always did love a good card game. Mycroft doesn’t feel the need to interrupt; the ability to listen is enough right now, although if he wanted to turn on his agent’s buttoncam he could. Unlike Bond, Lestrade doesn’t balk at being observed. Certainly not when the observer is Mycroft.

Lestrade speaks decent Serbian but the conversation tonight is in French, which means he’s found a ship. The man is a creature of habits, one of the reasons he would never make a good 00 agent. Fortunately, that’s never been his goal. Gregory Lestrade had been wasting away as a DS when Sherlock found him, and he was rather too good at taking Sherlock’s wild antics in stride for Mycroft to let the status quo remain. A few pointed conversations, a discussion of benefits—the man was _cutthroat_ about getting his month in the sun each year—and the promise of a professional challenge, and Lestrade had found a new career. Sherlock still hasn’t forgiven Mycroft for stealing away Scotland Yard’s least intolerable officer.

Lestrade matches their patois effortlessly, the gravelly undertone of his voice marking him as a heavy smoker and drinker. He’s neither, actually, but he can fake it quite well. Within his sphere, which is most of Europe, Lestrade is an excellent agent. He speaks four languages well and two with a bit of effort, nearly half as many as Mycroft. He has the silver-grey hair of an older man, which marks him as steady and reliable, but his smile is perfectly youthful and usually a bit cheeky. He’s genuinely charming, useless at dancing, surprisingly good with technology and has a knack for running backup, making sure the op goes smoothly and never fighting for the credit. Mycroft ensures that he gets credit regardless, but Lestrade is no peacock.

However, judging from the sounds of his companions’ dismay, he’s quite the card shark tonight. “Mais c’est la vie, eh?” Mycroft can picture him spreading his hands, affecting that slight air of befuddlement at his own success which never fails to amuse.

Perhaps it’s failing tonight, actually. One of the men sounds determined to take offense, no matter how conciliatory Lestrade is. Mycroft straightens in his chair and quietly turns on the buttoncam, giving him a slightly grainy picture of the scene—men sitting on crates around a low table, and good, they’re still at the wharf, Mycroft can triangulate their position based on the buildings he can see in the background and—

There’s no time. Suddenly the view changes, rapidly heading upward while the table seems to explode below, the unfortunate recipient of a hard kick. There are three other men, and at least two of them have pulled knives. “Get out of there, Agent,” Mycroft says briskly into the mic even as he turns Bond’s screen back on. Anthea is already on it, activating the building’s fire alarm, which Mycroft is mildly surprised that particular building even has.

He would deal with Bond himself, noticing out of the corner of his eye as the 00 rips his jacket off the camera and glares balefully at them, but Mycroft has bigger concerns. “Agent, right _now_ ,” Mycroft reiterates.

“Doin’ my best,” Lestrade mutters. There’s still an argument brewing, even though he’s given the money back. He’s heading for the alley behind him, the one that leads to the main street running along the docks, Mycroft recognizes it. He indicates it wordlessly to Anthea, who in turn relays the information to Bond.

The three men suddenly rush Lestrade, who turns and starts to run. Mycroft can hear the men’s shouts, the pound of their footsteps on the ground as they move to pursue.

“Do better!” Mycroft snaps. “Go right up here. 007 will rendezvous with you in less than a quarter mile.”

“Got it,” Lestrade grunts, and then saves the rest of his breath for running. He’s in good shape, better shape than the three men following him but the streets of Montenegro are slick from the rain, and all it takes is one misstep and then they’re on him. Mycroft has to watch and listen while the nearest of them drives his fist into Lestrade’s stomach, tearing a groan from him and almost knocking the buttoncam loose. Lestrade twists so the next punch rolls by and then drives his knee up into the man’s groin. His attacker falls to the ground with a satisfying whimper but there are still two more. Lestrade is good but they’re determined, and Mycroft’s just watching, watching as his agent is beaten black and blue—

And then Bond is there. Quick flashes of intense violence, so rapid that the cam can’t keep up in the dim lighting, but a moment later there are three men on the ground, not just one. None of them is Lestrade, who seems to be breathing rather gingerly. Then there’s Bond, who stares down at the men with a pleased expression on his face before he throws Lestrade’s arm around his shoulders and they walk off together, putting on a very convincing drunk act.

“Cheating at cards, getting into brawls, drinking rotgut by the sea…I think our Quartermaster likes you better than me, Lestrade,” Bond remarks as they slowly make their way to a nicer part of town.

“Funny thing is, I didn’t actually cheat,” Lestrade says, sounding rueful. “Got three lucky hands in a row, I was planning on throwing the next one but they jumped on me first. And you better not envy me the rotgut, James, or I’m taking that bottle of Talisker back.”

“Forget I said anything,” Bond replies with a little laugh. Mycroft is strangely unsurprised by the fact that Lestrade is on a first-name basis with MI6’s most notorious agent. “Has our Quartermaster gotten around to scolding you yet?”

“Not yet. Just savin’ it up, I bet.”

“I would never dream of interfering with you in such a way during a mission,” Mycroft says smoothly. “But I also look forward to getting you back to England, so that I may castigate you properly in private.” Anthea indicates something with her tablet and Mycroft nods. “A cab is coming to take you to the airport, Agent. You’ll be on 007’s six a.m. flight.”

“Tell me the seat’s first class at least,” Lestrade begs, and Bond laughs again.

“Coach, I’m afraid. But it _is_ an exit row,” Mycroft replies. “007, you’ll receive updated instructions within the next two hours. I suggest you leave your lines of communication open this time, so that we can avoid another fire drill.” Lestrade relays the information and Bond confirms, and then it’s just a matter of hacking the local cab company’s computers and sending one of them to the dark street where Lestrade and Bond are walking. One hour later Lestrade is at the airport, and Anthea has politely suggested that Mycroft take a half day.

“You’ve been up for the last thirty-three hours,” she points out. “You need to afford some time to sleep, you know.”

“A fine idea, my dear.” A fine idea that doesn’t come to fruition because just then one of the new hires informs Mycroft that Sherlock has been arrested breaking into a pharmacy, and Gregson is still spitting nails from the last time Sherlock disregarded proper protocol at a case and therefore feeling uncharitable. Mycroft spends his half day off rescuing his decidedly ungrateful brother, smoothing over hurt feelings at police headquarters and contemplating the probability that Lestrade has suffered internal damage during his short but rather vicious street fight. It is in no way restful, and by the time he heads home that evening he’s been awake for over forty hours, and is due to head back into work in fewer than eight.

Mycroft has plans, plans for the future that will not be derailed by simple things like fatigue or listlessness, but he must confess to occasionally wishing he had either of his younger brothers’ love of chemical assistance, even though heroin is a ridiculously dangerous habit and the amount of caffeine that Sherrinford regularly consumes likely threatens heart palpitations.

“Myc,” Lestrade’s soft voice says, and Mycroft ends up with heart palpitations all on his own, no chemicals needed. Lestrade’s there, in their hallway, waiting for Mycroft. He looks better than he should, probably used ice to take the swelling down and caught a nap during the flight. He moves to touch, but Mycroft holds up a hand.

“No. Not yet.”

“Mycroft, I’m fine.”

“You are a liar and an incompetent and I am utterly _furious_ at you, and I won’t be able to rest at all unless I have a chance to make sure you know that first,” Mycroft says. Lestrade insists that honesty is a key to any healthy relationship, but Mycroft isn’t so sure. He’s certainly willing to play along if it means he gets to express himself without fear of interruption, though. “Why in god’s name did you seek out a card game with a bunch of lowbrow sailors? You were running back-up on a 00 mission, not gathering intelligence! You are _impossible_ , do you realize that? I had an easier time with Bond today than I did with you, and that is a circumstance that should never, ever happen.

“If I hadn’t just spent all day cajoling a recalcitrant DI into being lenient with Sherlock I would yell at you more, but I find my voice is rather sore at this point,” he adds, because he doesn’t want Lestrade to think he’s getting off easy, oh no, this is a lecture deferred but not forgotten, this is—

“Mycroft.” Lestrade’s hands are on him now, sneaking around his waist, touching the soft spots that still make Mycroft a bit embarrassed and that his husband seems to love, for some reason. “I’m sorry I worried you, but I’m alright though, luv. I’m fine. James found me and I’m fine.” He turns his head and presses his lips to the side of Mycroft’s jaw, not quite a kiss, just the brush of warm breath over too-cold skin. “I missed you,” he adds, and oh, that’s just dirty pool.

“This is such a terrible idea,” Mycroft sighs. “I must have been out of my mind when I agreed to this. I have no professional distance with you at all. I can’t tell you how much I love being able to watch you when you’re working, or how incredibly painful it is to observe your discomfort.”

“Hmm…what, you think I’d be safer working as your brother’s minder here in London?” Lestrade chuckles. “He needs a 00 all for himself, honestly.”

“I’m looking for an equivalent stalwart for him,” Mycroft confesses, and this time when his husband pulls him close he goes easily, embracing him back. “Gregory.”

“I’m here, luv.” He kisses Mycroft’s temple. “I’m sorry for worrying you. Didn’t mean to.”

“You’re not an incompetent.”

“Aw, careful, you’ll make me blush,” Lestrade teases. “C’mon, you need the bed.”

“I need you in the bed with me,” Mycroft counters. “Otherwise I’ll be up wondering about your four bruised ribs and unable to get any rest.”

Lestrade winces. “Deduced those, did you? I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“It’s extremely apparent, Gregory.”

“Only to you. And your brothers, I suppose.”

“Neither of whom—” Mycroft yawns suddenly, his jaw cracking with the strength of it, “—are relevant to the conversation right now.”

“Course not, luv. Come on.” He tugs Mycroft’s arm around his shoulders the same way Bond had with him a bit earlier. “Bed.”

Fifteen minutes later Mycroft has showered, brushed, changed into sleep clothes and attached himself to the warm, living, beautiful _weakness_ that is Gregory Lestrade. Gregory wasn’t part of the plan, he is a chink in Mycroft’s armor, he is another person that might someday be used against him. If Mycroft were really as clever as he thinks he is, he should have run as far from Gregory Lestrade as possible the moment after he first met him. He should have had the man transferred to Manchester. He should have grabbed his brothers and swum across the channel to escape him, because Gregory is smart and handsome and competent, oh he is so competent, and Mycroft…he…

“I love you,” Lestrade whispers, and there’s a fervency in his voice that would make Mycroft’s knees wobble if he were still standing. “I know it’s not easy but it’s _worth_ it, it’s worth it to be with you. Can’t imagine my life without you, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Mycroft observes all things, but he didn’t see Gregory Lestrade coming until it was too late to avoid becoming inextricably tangled with him. Honesty, he reminds himself. “I love you as well. I love you desperately, I love you dangerously. I would break entire nations to prove my love to you.”

He can feel Lestrade’s lips curve in a smile against his shoulder. “Good thing you don’t have to.”

“No,” Mycroft agrees. _Not yet._ Hopefully not ever, but if he must be honest with Gregory then he must be honest with himself as well. Mycroft Holmes has plans, and at the forefront of those plans are the contingencies, the layers, the ever-deepening mire that is his way of ensuring the safety of the people he loves. It’s a dark place sometimes, Mycroft’s mind, but Gregory loves him anyway.

And Mycroft will never let that go without a fight.


End file.
